Emptiness and Razor Blades
by Captains Shadow
Summary: Sam has a secret of the selfdistructive kind. When everything falls apart, can Dean pull him out of the never ending black hole? WARNING: Self Harm
1. Zero Try to Understand

_Rating_: M (to be on the safe side-rating will probably go down in future chapters)

_Main Character_: Sam

_Pairing_: none

_Genre_: angst

_Warnings:_ This story deals with the issue of self harm. Some of this stuff could be quite graphic and may upset some readers. This is a warning to all people who do not want to read about this topic. And to those who want to flame me by saying that I don't know what I am talking about, I do, so leave me alone.

Concrit and reviews welcome.

_Title_: **_Emptiness and Razor Blades _**

Sam glanced at the clock; it was over two hour since Dean left, enough time to be certain that he wasn't going to come back from the usual hustle of pool early. He couldn't stand it any more; the way his fists clenched with stress while his brother was around, the way his thoughts wandered back to the same old thing when he wasn't. The way he wanted to do what was sick and disgusting and oh so wrong.

He got up off the bed and paced around the room, trying to distract himself, but at the same time knowing that he was just to damn addicted. And he didn't really want to stop. Sure there were days where it caused him more harm than good, but those days were few and far between, and he knew he could hide what he was doing so that he could keep indulging in his shameful secret.

He reached for his bag and dug down near the bottom. His thumb caught on a sharp edge and he cursed; the pain sharp and unexpected. What he was doing was so many different shades of wrong, but it made him feel… feel real, good even. No, scratch that, it was ecstasy. Hands shaking with need, he pulled the knife from his bag. It was sharp, the blade glinting in the dim light of their crappy apartment.

Something banged against a trash can outside the window and Sam almost dropped the knife. He heard a distinct meow and drew a sigh of relief. He crossed the room quickly and grabbed the first aid kit off the table. He locked the bathroom door behind him and sank onto the cold tile floor, pressing his back up against the wall. He swiftly rolled his long jacket sleeves up to the elbow and grasped the knife. Glancing at the door and listening to make sure Dean hadn't come home since the last time he'd checked, he pressed the knife to his bare skin.

He drew the knife across his arm quickly, reviling in the sensation it caused, the pain, the realness and it felt… to him, his version of heaven. The placed the knife to skin over and over again, blood running down his arm and onto the floor. Sam reached across for a towel and spread it in front of him, soaking up the scarlet liquid and letting more fall onto it. He glanced at the bathroom door again, not wanting his brother to catch him. He worked quickly, hoping Dean wouldn't come home any time soon. He threw the knife into the basin and placed pressure on his arm with the towel. His hands shook as he reached for the gaze. He knew it was bad, he knew it was wrong, but somehow, it kept him sane. He removed the towel and looked down at the angry red marks on his arm. Long shallow cuts from wrist to elbow tracing a path well away from veins; he wasn't going to kill himself, at least, not yet.

The door of their shabby motel room slammed shut the Sam dropped the bandages he was holding. His heart started pounding as he heard Dean rustling around in the main room.

"Sam?" Dean called out as he dropped the newspapers and coffee onto the small table.

He willed his hands into motion, throwing the towel into the hamper and bandaging his arm quickly. He shoved everything into the first aid kit and pulled his jacket sleeves down over his arms before unlocking the door as Dean prepared to call out for his brother again.

"Dude, what took you so long in there?" Dean said as he shoved a cup of coffee into his brothers hands.

Sam willed them not to shake as he accepted it, the adrenalin still pumping through his system. "Ahh, not feeling so crash hot. Something I ate yesterday." He lied smoothly.

Dean raised an eyebrow, "You didn't eat anything yesterday, unless you count the five cups of coffee you drank." He glanced at his hands. "Looks like all that caffeine is kicking in too, your hands are shaking like mad there Sam. Man, you're so not carrying a gun today."

"I'm fine, I'll be fine in a couple of minutes."

Dean turned and looked into the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower, won't be too long." He dropped his jacket on one of the double beds and dug a fresh shirt out of his bag.

As the door clicked shut behind him Sam slipped his hand in his pocket to retrieve the knife and stash it at the bottom of his bag. The shower started and Sam realized that his pocket was empty. He spun around to face the bathroom door, heart racing again as the shower turned off, far too soon for Dean to have washed. He hear his brothers footsteps nearing the door and as the handle turned he fled; out the front door, across the parking lot, past the Impala and straight down the twisting, narrow road.

It was dark and muddy from the rain the pervious day. There were no streetlamps to guide him; they were on the edge of town, far away from houses, in a land of bleak country side and rundown motels. He ran, sobs ripped from his lips, fear keeping him on his feet; feet of hatred and scorn from his brother, of rejection and disgust.

Sam's foot hit a muddy patch and he fell, hard, into the dirt and grim on the side of the road. His arm hurt like fire as stagnant water soaked through the bandages, reminding him way he was running. He dragged himself back onto his feet and staggered on, not really caring where the road led him, only hoping that he could escape the wrath of his brother.

In the distance he heard the familiar roar of the Impala and instead of running faster, he simply collapsed, unable to outrun the on coming car. He sank to his knees as it came around the corner and as the headlights hit his back, he felt an over whelming wave of guilt and dread.

The car skidded to a stop and door was flung open. "Sammy! Jesus Christ Sam, why the hell did you run off like that?" Dean yelled angrily as he grabbed his brothers shoulders and slid down into the mud in front of him. "You scared the crap out of me! In the state you're in, you could have been hit by a car and in case you haven't noticed, it's a full moon tonight! Man, it's werewolf night! What the hell were you thinking?"

Sam closed his eyes, tears silently making their way down his face, leaving streaks through the half dried mud.

"Answer me Sam!"

The muscle in the side of his face started to twitch as he tried to keep him self from full on balling.

"Damn it Sam! Ans-"

"You hate me don't you…" The words hung in the air, caught up in the damp, overwhelming darkness.

Dean took one hand off his brothers shoulder and grasped his chin. Sam closed his eyes tightly as his head moved up so he was nose to nose with his brother. "Sammy…"

"The knife." Sam said simply. He pulled his face out of Deans hold and let his head hang again. Dean fell silent. Instead of saying anything more he pulled Sam to his feet and led him gently towards the car. Sam let himself fall onto the smooth leather upholstery and stared blankly out the window.

He'd never meant for this to happen, never wanted Dean to find out. He just wanted his brother to be blissfully ignorant and stay that way. He didn't want to stop, and that's what Dean was going to make him do.

Dean slid into the car and revved the engine, having not turned it off before tumbling out of the car and into the mud. He swung the car around and floored the accelerator wanting nothing more than to get back to the semi-warmth of the motel.

They sat in silence again; Sam through lack of wanting to talk and Dean from lack of knowing what to say. Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in an attempt to stay calm. His mind was spinning, tearing itself apart from confusion and worry. A bloodied knife in the basin, a first aid kit that was frequently missing bandages and a brother terrified that he hated him; it was really not a good equation. In fact, it was a downright scary one.

He pulled the car into the parking lot and cut off the engine. "Dude, is there something you want to tell me?"

"I thought you said you didn't do chick flicks?"

"Damn it Sammy, I don't fucking care what I said!" Dean yelled as he turned to face Sam. Sam cringed at the tone in his brothers voice. "And I'm sorry I said it because maybe then you would talk to me instead of hurting yourself." Dean regretted the words as soon as they spilled from his mouth.

Sam hung his head and stepped out of the car.

"Sam… dude, okay, that was the wrong thing to say man. I'm just a bit, I don't know, shocked to find out this." He slammed the door to the Impala and started towards the door of their room. "Come on Sam, you're soaked and covered in mud. You've got to get out of the cold.

Sam clenched his jaw and stepped awkwardly towards his brother. Dean opened the unlocked door and gently shoved him inside. Sam stopped in the middle of the room looking scared and dejected and Dean resisted the urge to slam that door too.

"Sam," he whispered, throat tight as his mind organized the words he was going to say. "Can I see them?"

Sam bit his lip and fiddled with his jacket zip, unwilling to take it off and bare his arms to his brother.

"Alright, not a good question to ask. Do any of them need stitches? Did any of them get infected? Do you need to go to a doctor or anything, 'cause I know a damn good one in this area."

"Dean,"

"Yeah, man, what?"

"Shut up."

Dean licked his lips and nodded his head slowly. "Sammy, I just want to help you."

Sam unzipped his jacket and let it fall to the floor. He closed his eyes as he pulled the long sleeved shirt over his head. He pulled off his arms and turned towards his brother. Deans struggled to find words. The white bandage covered most of the scars, but it had shifted and poking out from underneath it were fading white lines. They crisscrossed at irregular intervals, a mass of reminders of what he had done.

Dean took a step forward so he was almost toe to toe with his younger, but somewhat taller brother. He reached out and touched the bandage with his fingertips. Sam jerked away from the motion, but not before Dean could feel that they were wet.

"Dude, they may not be infected now, but they will be if you leave that bandage on. We got to get it off you." He grabbed his brothers wrist Be found th edge of the bandage and un-taped it, pullining it away from his brothers cooling skin. He willed himself to have no reaction as the cuts came into view, but there were so many of them. They weren't too deep, but they were enough to leave a scar that would take some time to fade.

He shoved Sam down onto one of the beds in the crapped space. "Stay here." Sam kept his eyes on the ground as his brother hurried into the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit. He sat it on the bed next to him and pulled out the antiseptic. Sam winced as the liquid touched his skin and his arm involuntarily flinched. Dean looked up at him and caught his eye.

"What made you do it?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders and Dean continued cleaning the cuts. "I guess, oh man this is going to sound twisted, it feels good."

Dean looked up again. He threw the cotton ball at the small trash can in the corner of the room. It bounced off the wall and fell perfectly into the can. "So basically, you're addicted."

Sam pulled away and glared at Dean. He held his hands up in surrender. "Dude, I'm not the best when it comes to counseling, just give me a chance here."

"I never wanted you to find out. I just, I just wanted-"

"Release?"

Sam's look softened and he frowned putting his head on one side, a signal for Dean to expand his answer.

"I know you bottle things up. Everyone has there own way of letting it out. But this Sam, it's-"

"Wrong, sick and disgusting." Sam muttered. "I know."

"I wasn't going to say that." Dean took hold of his arm again and reached across for a fresh bandage. "I was going to say damaging, but even that's not right."

"But it is Dean. What I do, it's-"

"It's your way of coping. It's not a very good way and man, it's currently scaring the shit out of me, but it'd your own way of dealing with whatever shit gets thrown at you on a regular basis. What we do, this whole hunting fucking demons, it's got to be the most stressful job in history because hundreds of lives rest in the palms of our hands. Now talk to me Sammy!"

Sam drew in a shaky breath as Dean tapped off the edge of the bandage. "What do you want to know?"

"For starters, how long?"

"Six years."

"Shit Sam! And no one ever knew?"

"No one."

Dean swallowed. "Okay do you just cut your arms, or are there other laces as well, 'cause I'm sure I can remember you wearing short sleeves at one point."

"My arms when I can get away with it, but my legs too."

"I've seen you in shorts in the last six months."

"Think higher up."

Dean nodded his head. "Have you got any scars."

Sam paused and chewed on his lip. "I don, but their fading pretty fast."

"Even the ones on you arms?" Dean started to pack up the first aid kit, stowing the antiseptic back in the box. As he click the lid shut he looked over at his brother. "Sammy, you going to answer me over there?"

"Their fading."

"Are you just going to keep giving me bare bones answers?" Sam's jaw clenched. "Okay, bare bones is good.' He stood up and place the kit on the table. He walked back into the bathroom and Sam could hear water running in the sink for a few minutes. Dean returned, newly cleaned knife in his hand. He looked at Sam and then back at the knife.

"Please tell me you Cleaned all the demon goop off this before you started using it."

Sam nodded and his lips twitched into a ghost of a smile.


	2. Two Nervious Wreck

_Rating_: M (to be on the safe side-rating will probably go down in future chapters)

_Main Character_: Sam

_Pairing_: none

_Genre_: angst

_Warnings:_ This story deals with the issue of self harm. Some of this stuff could be quite graphic and may upset some readers. This is a warning to all people who do not want to read about this topic. And to those who want to flame me by saying that I don't know what I am talking about, I do, so leave me alone.

Concrit and reviews welcome.

_Title_: **_Emptiness and Razor Blades _**

Sam lay motionless on the bed, the jeans he was wearing still damp from the muddy water he had collapsed into hours earlier. His arms stung, a sign that the antiseptic was working underneath the thick layer of soft, white bandages. Dean had long since fallen asleep, the stress from his brother's accidental revelation overpowering his will to watch him. He was snoring quietly, utterly emotionally drained from the evening.

Sam stared at the ceiling willing his mind to slow down and rest, but his thoughts just kept jumping from one emotional thing to another. A child dead at the hands a of demon, the mangled corpses of Wendigo victims, Max's ultimate escape from his pain… Sam sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He carefully got to his feet and silently made his way over to the table. Dean had dropped his knife there and forgotten to put it away. Hardly a day went by when he did feel like cutting himself and sometimes just holding the knife could be a release.

He turned it over in his hands, the handle smooth and comforting. He heard Dean's bed squeak and he bit his lip as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Dean reached around him and took the knife out of his hand, tossing it into the open weapons bag. He walked around the table and sank into one of the rickety old chair, which -like the bed- squeaked in complaint. He looked up at his younger brother, a surprisingly neutral expression on his face. He waited for Sam to speak.

Five minutes past and Dean grew tired of the silence. "This obviously isn't going to work."

Sam sat down opposite him and crossed his arms, a defensive gesture that Dean knew was only out of fear.

"Sam, you know this is bad for you, don't you?" Sam's jaw clenched and he uncrossed his arms, letting them rest on the table in front of him. "And this isn't something that's going to go away on its own, is it?" Sam glanced at the clock, avoiding his brothers questions. "Dude! LISTEN to me!" Sam glared at him. "All I want is to help you, okay. This shit, its got me worried man. I don't want to see my little brother in that much pain that he has to cut himself to stay sane."

Sam looked him in the eye for the first time since he'd sat down. "Dean," he looked down again, "this is as scary for me as it is for you. I know this isn't good for me and you're right about what you said earlier; I'm addicted. I'm like a junkie who only cares about the next time he can get his high. But this works for me-"

"What do you mean _works_! It's self destructive!"

"But it's the way I live now Dean! I don't expect you to understand this-"

"Well I don't. And frankly man, that's worse than knowing that you do it."

Sam got up so suddenly that his chair fell to the floor with a crash. Dean flinched as his brother turned and threw himself against the wall, sliding down it to the floor, hands over his face.

Dean got up and sat down strategically between his brother and the weapons bag. "I never meant for you to find this out man. I wanted to keep it to myself." Sam whispered.

"I kinnda figured that. Sammy, you know you can talk to me about anything, man, no hassling about it."

"Chick flick-"

"Screw that Sammy, I don't care what I said. And I would feel absolutely mortified if you died because you couldn't talk to me."

"I don't want to kill myself…" Sam trailed off. He tried hard not to look at Dean, but after a while, he glanced up. Deans face was a neutral mask covering up all the turbulent emotions that swam underneath the surface. He looked away just as quickly.

"You know what I'm going to say next, don't you." Dean whispered.

"You want me to stop."

"I want to you stop."

"Can I think about it?"

"No. You make the decision right here, right now so I can help you."

"I can't…"

"Yes you can Sam. There's nothing I can do to make you stop, I can't help you if you want to keep doing this man. But is you promise me it ends tonight, I can… and I will."

"I don't want to stop…" Sam whispered.

Dean got to his feet and turned his back on his brother. He sighed. "Right, go for your life Sammy, the offer will always stand."

"Dean, I haven't finished. I don't want to stop, but I have to."

Dean kept his back turned, unwilling to let his brother see the pain scrawled across his face. His jaw clenched and he nodded his head slowly. "It ends tonight then."

"Yeah… It ends tonight."

DS

Sam stared blankly at his laptop, a web page on random demons open in front of him. But his eyes weren't seeing what was on the screen; his mind was focused on trying to stay sane. His hands left the keyboard and absentmindedly, he started scratching at his arm. Dean looked up from his book, puzzled by the distinct lack of typing. The motion of his brothers fingers caught his attention and he slammed his book shut.

"Sammy!"

Sam jerked and his eyes met Deans. He cast his glance down to his lap and his brother violently threw his book across the room and strode over to him. He pulled up a chair and watched as his brother fidgeted under his steady gaze.

"Sam," Dean sighed and grabbed his brothers hands to still them, "It's been two days man. Your turning into a nervous wreak on me."

Sam clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. "Dean…"

"Sam… Sammy, what can I do?"

Sam looked up at him, a look of exhaustion passing over his face. "I don't think I can do this Dean." Dean let his brothers hands go and looked at the ceiling. He closed his eyes. "Dude, up until two days ago, I was able to cope and… and I didn't feel like shit all the time. This thing, it worked Dean, it-"

"No, dude, you've got to stop! One day you'll go too far; you'll slip up and hit a vein, or worse an artery! And shit man, that scares the crap out of me! Thinking that one day, I could walking in and find your blood all over the floor!"

"Dean…"

"Sammy, listen-"

"No Dean, you listen!" Sam stood up and shoved Dean away from him. "You don't understand what it's like Dean, no one can! I can't do this, Dean… I can't do this."

The last part came out as a whisper and it wasn't the words, but rather his whole demure that hit Dean the hardest. And he decided to do something that he'd never done before. Dean stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Sam tensed at the unfamiliar reaction, but he was so emotionally smashed that he let his head drop onto his brothers shoulder and gave into the tears that begged to flow down his face. He'd never fallen this far before; feeling so deep in the ice cold depression that nothing cold warm him, and he was glad to have his brother with him.

Dean could feel the tears seeping through his jacket and hear Sam's exhausted sigh, but he did nothing to push him away when three minutes had past or even five. He let his brother collect himself and only let go when Sam's head made his shoulder go numb. Sam pulled away looking slightly embarrassed at his sudden mood-swing.

"Sam, you can do this. You will do this."

"It's not as easy as you think Dean."

"I know it's not, but you can do this. You're strong enough to overcome this, even if there are some little… or rather large hurdles along the way." Dean turned and walked into the small kitchen area of the motel room. He rummaged around in the plastic bags of food that the two of them had bought. They had decide to stay in the town for a while to try and clean out the general area as well as give them a solid base of operations. That and the trail they were on for finding their father had suddenly come to a grinding halt.

Sam sat back down at the kitchen table as Dean continued to rummage around. Finally he heard his brother slam down whatever he was holding in frustration. "Damn! Do you know how to cook Sammy?"

Sam smiled and looked over his shoulder at his irritated brother. "In all your years on the road you only learnt how to cook Spaghetios?"

"I bought most of the stuff I eat. I hate cooking."

"Well dude, you're looking at the worlds worst cook. Anything that requires boiling, frying, baking roasting or microwaving gets the shit burnt out of it."

"Any idea why we bought the food then?"

"No idea."


	3. Three Ice Buckets

_Rating_: M (to be on the safe side-rating will probably go down in future chapters)

_Main Character_: Sam

_Pairing_: none

_Genre_: angst

_Warnings:_ This story deals with the issue of self harm. Some of this stuff could be quite graphic and may upset some readers. This is a warning to all people who do not want to read about this topic. And to those who want to flame me by saying that I don't know what I am talking about, I do, so leave me alone.

Concrit and reviews welcome.

Thank you to every one who reads this, I know I haven't updated it in about a year but there is such a thing called 'trying to get year 12 valedictorian (or Dux as the Aussies call it). I am so close and there is only six weeks left of school… another chapter is on the way hopefully in the not to distant future.

There is actually a hunting sequence in this chapter plus a confrontation that turns really nasty.

_Title_: _**Emptiness and Razor Blades **_

"Dean." Sam motioned with his hand for him to get on the other side of the door. Dean drew his gun, back flat against the wall watching Sam's hand for the countdown of three, two, one…

Sam wrenched open the door and Dean leapt in; pointing the small semi-automatic at the black dog crouched in the center of the room. It growled and turned to face them, yellow teeth bared in a sinister snarl.

"Well that is not what I thought would be in here."

"Sammy, once again, masters the art of understating. I thought you said this was a run of the mill poltergeist!"

"I did! The woman didn't mention the claw marks on the walls! This isn't the way Black Dogs usually act. They hunt and kill, not tear up an apartment!"

"No shit Sammy-"

It lunged for them and Dean slammed the door shut on its nose. But instead of a crash and a splintering of wood and metal, there was silence.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but black dogs are corporeal, aren't they?"

"Pretty certain…" Sam said as he edged towards the door, "but that did not sound corporeal; it was coming right at us." He cracked the door open a fraction and peered inside.

"What, dude, is it still there?"

Sam pushed the door open wider, "where the fuck did it go? Dean, the last time I saw, Black Dogs can't disappear."

"For some reason Sam, I don't think we're dealing with a Dog anymore. Let's get the hell out of here and figure this shit out." He tucked his gun in the waist band of his jeans and turned his back on his brother.

"I don't know where the hell it's gone Dean. There's no sulfur, no gapping hole in the wall; there's nothing. What the hell is it?"

"Not a Black dog." Dean reached the front door of the dilapidated house before he leaned on the frame to face his brother. Broken chairs were strewn around the room, once fine bone china smashed into a fine powder beneath his feet, larger chunks imbedded in the plaster cracking away from the walls and the ceiling. It was dusty and dank with a weird sense of nervous energy crackling through the air, almost palatable through the grit of age that the house gave off. "I don't know, vengeful spirit maybe?"

"Could be. They don't usually take the shape of animals though." Sam crouched down to inspect the claw marks in the wall, deep gouges slashing out the plaster board and etching into the bricks, placing his gun beside him.

"Sam, lets go; I don't want to be here when it gets back."

"You don't know it's going to come back any time soon. Let me figure this out, I gotta have something to do."

"To stop you from cutting yourself?"

"Just to take my mind off it."

Dean sank into the nearest stable chair, letting his brother continue to work his way through the room, examining every nock and cranny. "Do you want to cut yourself now Sam?"

"No, because I'm not focused on my shit. Just leave it Dean."

"We gotta talk through this man. It won't get any better if you just jam it up. You'll over think shit; it'll take over your brain-"

"Just shut it Dean." Sam leaned back on his haunches, staring at a blank point on the wall. "If I talk you'll need to get me a straight jacket."

"So I'll get you a damn jacket if it will make it easier for you to talk to me. I don't want to find you bleeding out in the bath of a seedy motel Sammy. Dad would never forgive me if I let you die."

"I thought we got past the concept that self harm isn't suicide."

"I know, but the longer it goes on, the harder it gets to stop, the deeper you go, the closer you get to the veins and you end up dead, intentional of not. I don't want to see that happen to you."

"I don't want to do this Dean. Let's just get this hunt done, find dad, and sodding get back how it used to be."

"You know, I thought this was about Jess-"

"Dean."

"But you were cutting while you were with her. She would have known."

"She did."

"Six years; that's about the time that you walked out."

"Dad chucked me out." He placed his fingers on the gouges in the wall, watching them twitch as he tried not to snap at Dean.

"He told you if you left that you couldn't come back, you were the one who chose to leave."

"Fuck you Dean!"

"Is this why you do this to yourself Sam?! Because you didn't think we loved you?"

"It wasn't just six years Dean! That was just a convenient number that I pulled out of my head!"

"How long then! How long have you torn your arms to pieces!?"

"Since I was twelve Dean! I tried to kill myself when I was twelve!" The words hung in the thick air, suspended by the emotion it portrayed.

They stared at each other, Dean tense, coiled on the rickety seat; Sam still crouched on the floor, waves of distress pouring off him.

"I took a handful of sleeping pills before we went out on a hunt. I feel into a grave we desecrated remember? Dean, we desecrate graves, we kill people, and things try to kill us. Dad didn't even take me to a hospital or anything; he just poured charcoal down my throat and told me how stupid I was."

"I don't remember him-"

"When I woke up he shook me by the shoulders and told me how stupid I was. He didn't get that I had tried to commit suicide; he thought it was an accident. You know what he said? 'I don't care how tired you are, you don't take sleeping pills when there is even a remote possibility of a hunt.' I wanted to die Dean and he called me stupid."

"If he had known he would have dropped everything to make you better. And I would have too Sammy." Dean got up and started towards him.

"Don't Dean." Said Sam as he flopped down onto his rear-end and drew his knees up towards his chest. "I don't…"

"Okay." Dean sank to the dusty, bone china strewn floor and sighed.

"There were days when I would plunge my arms in an ice bucket up to my elbows and just cut. Some days I did it just to see if this life was anything other than one hellish nightmare. I would fantasies about suicide, how I would run the blade down to the bone, through the muscle to see just how easy it would be to fillet myself like one of those glass eyed fish. I would think about stabbing myself over and over, watching my blood splash on the floor. I would draft fucking suicide notes in the middle of class and press staples into my flesh to get a release during exams. I'm a junky Dean; I have been for a long time, and I have no reason for doing this, and don't move, it's behind you."

Sam reached to his left where he had dropped his gun. The dog growled and took a step close to Dean who was frozen in his spot. "You better have damn good aim Sammy." He hissed and the dog snarled louder.

Sam clicked off the safety and aimed just over Dean's shoulder. "On the count of three, dive to the right." He muttered. "One, two, three!"

Dean threw himself to the floor as the dog hurled itself towards Sam at the same time as the gun roared into life. It fell to the ground with a thud in mid-leap. Dean removed the arms he had instinctively thrown around his head and looked up. Sam toed the massive bulk with his sneaker, then placed the muzzle of the gun to its skull and fired another round. The body jerked from the impact but lay still when the reverberation ceased.

"Well, at least it's corporeal now." Dean jibbed as he pulled himself to his feet.


	4. Four Half Written Notes

_Rating_: M (to be on the safe side-rating will probably go down in future chapters)

_Main Character_: Sam

_Pairing_: none

_Genre_: angst

_Warnings:_ This story deals with the issue of self harm. Some of this stuff could be quite graphic and may upset some readers. This is a warning to all people who do not want to read about this topic. And to those who want to flame me by saying that I don't know what I am talking about, I do, so leave me alone.

This chapter deal with a suicide note so be forewarned if this is a trigger for you. This is an odd sort of chapter that will make sense when I type up the next one. IT IS NOT A LIST! It's Sammy composing a suicide note.

Concrit and reviews welcome.

_Title_: _**Emptiness and Razor Blades **_

_Dean- I'm sorry that I_

_Dear Dean, by the time you read this you will have no chance to say goodbye_

_Dear Dean_

_Dear Dean- stuff you, you asshole_

_Dean, I hate you_

_Dean I'm sorry, I love you._

_Dean- I'm not going to be here if I don't want to be. I hate this place, I hate this hunting, all the traveling and moving and knowing that something is always following, always watching, and just a few paces behind me. I'm sick of fighting something I know I'm not going to be able to kill. All I can kill is myself._

_Dean- I'm not going to say 'I'm sorry', because I'm not. I don't want to be here, I'm not going to stay here anymore. I don't want to_

_Dean_

_Dean- 'All I have is a voice to undo the folded lie' My own lies are too thick now, trying to promise you that I am okay. _

_Dear Dean, I don't want to live and lie like this anymore, to be constantly looking over my shoulder, always running. _

_Dean, by the time you read this you will have no chance to say goodbye. I'm not going to say 'I'm sorry', because I'm not. I don't want to be here, I'm not going to stay here anymore. I don't want to. I'm not going to be here if I don't want to be. I hate this place, I hate this hunting, all the traveling and moving and knowing that something is always following, always watching, and just a few paces behind me. I'm sick of fighting something I know I'm not going to be able to kill. All I can kill is myself. I don't want to live and lie like this anymore, to be constantly looking over my shoulder, always running. 'All I have is a voice to undo the folded lie' My own lies are too thick now, trying to promise you that I am okay. The one thing that I will say is that it is not your fault. It's not your hand which wields the knife or steadies the bottle of pills that I pour down my throat. This rage rips at me, tears me so far Dean. I can fee it inside of me, this horror waiting to consume me. And no I am going to let it. I'm letting go and I don' want to be pulled back from the brink o oblivion. It is peace I am after Dean, and I can find it here. Maybe I don't want to find it here. _

He threw it in the general direction of the bin, sending the paper skittering across the floor.


	5. Five You Said

_Rating_: M

_Main Character_: Sam

_Pairing_: none

_Genre_: angst

_Warnings:_ This story deals with the issue of self harm and Suicide. Some of this stuff could be quite graphic and may upset some readers. This is a warning to all people who do not want to read about this topic. And to those who want to flame me by saying that I don't know what I am talking about, I do, so leave me alone.

Concrit and reviews welcome.

This is last chapter of this story. I've decided to run it straight into my new fic _Rain-Splattered Windows_ which introduces a whole new cast of characters and a fair bit of what happened to Sam at Stanford. The new story is still going to be dealing with Sammy's cutting, but it focuses more on hunting and other characters. Bobby features, as well as Pastor Jim and a set of identical twins (male much to Deans disgust, if anyone caught that line 301). SO yeah, this aint going to be the longest chap in the books, but it sort of ties up things and slips it into the next story.

_Title_: _**Emptiness and Razor Blades **_

Dean stared up at the ceiling of the comfortably shabby he and Sam had rented for the week while hunting the black dog. The ceiling was horrifically caked, forming patterns in the stark white plaster. The wallpaper stamped with tacky flowers was pealing, straining to be free of the apricot coloured walls underneath. His eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, and he ached from the stress of hours in the impala.

Sam rolled over on the single bed across the room Dean glanced over to him, then reached for his jacket, extracting two pieces of crumpled paper. The first was worn from the constant opening, written additions, and refolding that it had received. The other was in slightly better condition. Dean lifted his eyes to his brother again; only seeing a lump covered by a too thin sheet in the almost total darkness. He sat up, swinging his feet onto the surprisingly clean carpet. Insomnia could be a bitch sometimes.

He had found the letter that Sam had been writing, the kind that had a les than pleasant ending. The kind that ended with, 'I'm dead'. It was not the note that scared him; it was the knowledge that Sammy would follow through with it if he had the chance. If he was capable of swallowing a bottle of pills, knowing what the consequences would be, when he was twelve, he could sure as hell slit his wrists now.

'Dean?' Sam sat up, framed by the open, but salt-lined, window. It was getting to be a hot summer in the central parts of America; enough to have the doors and windows wide open if it was a secure neighbourhood, and sweat sodden sheets clinging to hips and chests.

Air conditioned this place was not.

"When is a black dog not a black dog?"

"I hate you when you get philosophical Sam."

"This hunt just wasn't right."

"There are a lot of things that aren't right at the moment" Dean fiddled with the pieces of paper distractedly, "like you wanting to kill yourself."

"Self harm-"

"-isn't suicide, then why did I find the note you were drafting?"

Sam pushed off the sheet and walked over to Dean. "Give it to me."

"What, so you can give it back? No way man; I believed you when you said you didn't want to die."

"I was just thinking about it; I doubt I would have followed through. Now give me the damn note."

"Sit down Sam."

"Dean-"

"Sit down!" Dean grabbed his wrists and roughly shoved him into a sitting position back on the bed. "I will make a deal with you. Any time you want to hurt yourself in any way, shape or form, you come to me first. You tell me. So you know that someone else knows what you're doing. So that if you slip up someone is there. Namely me. I want to help you, but I cant when you do this on your own. You don't have to suffer by yourself Sam."

Sam looked him dead in the eye. "I want to cut myself."

"Now?"

Sam nodded.

Dean turned and reached into his bag. "Use a sharp hunting knife, nothing blunt, serrated and dirty. First aid kit." He tossed the green box in his direction, turning, flopping onto his bed, cross legged. He looked over at Sam, trying to gage his reaction.

He stood there, looking back at his seemingly impassive brother, looking ridiculously awkward wearing only a pair of boxers holding a first aid kit. "You said this was going to stop."

"It's okay Sam."

"You said it was over, you made me swear."

"And I've been waiting for you to repeat that back to me cause now I know you're getting there." Dean sighed "You ready to stop?"

"Once more?"

Silence.

"Here, now, in front of me. If you can do that you can. If you cant, you cant." Dean handed him a knife. Sam took it, his hand shaking slightly.

He turned slightly and unwrapped the bandage he had worn ever since Dean had caught him. He closed his eyes and Dean swore his heart stopped as Sam inhaled, then ran the blade across his already scared arm on the exhale. The cut was enough to make Dean shudder and for blood to start trickling down to his fingers almost instantly.

Sam leaned his head back, staring through closed lids at the ceiling, reveling the sensation of pain. He tilted his arm up so the blood wouldn't start soaking into the carpet and used tissues to mop up most of the crimson liquid and stem the flow.

"I'll end up asking for one more cut over and over again Dean, just waiting for you to give in."

"I know Sam."

"I'm so hooked."

"I know."

"I don't want to think anymore."

"I know."

Dean stood wrapped his arms around his brother. It wasn't one of those man hugs, that Sam detested, it was one of those 'I don't want you to hurt anymore' ones, the type that Dean hated to give because he was confirming that something was seriously wrong, and the type that Sam craved.


End file.
